


Alternate Thursdays

by mercurybard



Category: Angel: the Series, Numb3rs
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurybard/pseuds/mercurybard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet over the grave of a murdered woman</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pay My Murder Fee and Leave

They meet over the grave of Jessica Billard. Billy's there waiting for the escaped widower (and killer) to pay a visit; Faith's camping out in anticipation of the late Mrs. Billard rising up from the grave and snacking on her murderous mister.

Which would sound ridiculous, except Lehane just reduced an asshole with a crinkly forehead and too many teeth to dust using nothing but a pointy table leg. Billy's sure he's got a cracked rib and vampire dust up his nose.

"Not smart hanging around cemeteries after dark," she says as she hauls him (literally, _hauls_ , like he's a scrawny adolescent, not a full-grown man) to his feet.

He sneezes and tries to hide the accompanying wince. Yep, that rib is definitely cracked. "I was going to say the same to you." Lips like an over-ripe cherry…and she took out the thing that had been kicking the shit out of him in three moves or less.

Those dark red lips quirk upwards at the corners. "I can take care of myself."

"I can tell."


	2. Elvis Visits on Alternate Thursdays

Billy opens the door to his motel room and finds Faith—cherry-lipped, monster-killing Faith Lehane (who, it turns out, is on the FBI's Most Wanted list after a jailbreak in California)—standing on the other side. She's holding, of all things, a bowling ball bag.

"Brought you a present," she says as she hands him the bag and slithers past him into the off-brand, shitty room. "I didn't do him." She takes off her shades, hooking them over the low v-neck of her shirt.

Coop unzips the bag, and…that would be the head of one Miguel Martinez, cop-killer and fugitive. He's spent the last week and a half chasing Martinez across five states. "Do I want to know?"

"He was the thrall of a demon called the Sayadinah," Faith explains as she flops down on his unmade bed and digs the remote out from between the sheets. "Doing her bitchwork is what landed him in jail in the first place. He broke out and tried to convince her to make good on her promise of immortality. Guess she didn't want to pay up."

Billy looks down at the expression of shock frozen on the decapitated head. "Guess not." He zips the bag back up and sets it on the table under the window. His bosses were going to have a field day with this one. "And this Saya-person?"

Faith pauses her channel-surfing just long enough to check the score on a Red Socks game. "Her, I did do."

Coop groans. "My boss is going to love this." He needs to take her in—head-in-a-bag aside, she's a convicted murderer and a fugitive—but he just stays by the door as she tosses the remote back up the bed and starts poking through his duffel.

"I'm guessing you heard about the whole prison break thing since the last time we ran into each other." She's wearing painted-on black jeans that ride low enough he catches a glimpse of creamy skin at the small of her back when she leans over to root through the side pocket where he keeps his clean socks.

"Saw your mugshot on a post office wall in Chattanooga. Not my best day ever."

She finds his spare cuffs tucked in beside the shaving cream. "Let me make this easy for you." Shoving the duffel aside, she slides off the bed, cuffs swinging from one finger.

Billy arches an eyebrow, eyes flickering from the smirk on those lips to the predator sway of her hips and wonders if he should go for his gun. It's on the table by the bed—he'd been watching TV, waiting for an informant to call when she knocked. Then he wonders why he didn't take it to the door with him (usually, he takes it to the fucking can). Stupid. Then again, if he's not hallucinating how fast he remembers this girl can move, he'd never get a chance to draw it. "Why do I get the feeling your file doesn't tell the whole story about the Sunnydale murder?"

"Because you helped me put a cursed corpse back in the ground the night we met." Faith's close enough now that he can feel her body heat. She's got him backed against the door…not touching him, but he's cornered all the same. Not a sensation he's particularly used to— _he's_ the hunter here—and not one he particularly likes.

Coop puts his hands on Faith's bare shoulders, intending to move her out of the way, but she surges up on her toes and catches his mouth with hers.

She kisses dirty and tastes like whiskey. Part of his back-brain wonders when she had time to stop off for a drink between killing the demon (and he's got 'demon' filed away for consideration sometime when Faith isn't sucking on his tongue) and delivering the head to his doorstep. That portion shuts down when she starts pawing at his overshirt, and Coop slides a hand up under her tank top. The skin of her back feels scorching against his palm.

Faith breaks off the kiss, mouthing at his jaw as she works her way over to his ear. "I'm turning myself in, Agent Cooper. I just thought we could have a little fun putting the handcuffs on," she whispers, then nips his earlobe.

This just might be the weirdest arrest Billy Cooper's ever made.


	3. If You're Not Expected, Then You're Not Invited

The lamp was on the floor. Coop couldn't even remember knocking it over when he maneuvered a naked Faith onto the bedside table, crowding her until the backs of her legs hit and she tipped backward, legs falling open. Billy dropped to his knees between them, skating his fingertips over the smooth skin of her inner thighs, making her shiver. His back burned with her nail marks from fucking against the motel door—he was going to take his sweet time with round two. Kisses to the backs of her knees, the join of leg and hip, the soft skin of her lower belly. "Tease," she gasped, then squirmed as the stubble on his jaw rasped against over-sensitive skin.

"Fucker," when he breathed hot just to the left of where she wanted his mouth.

Coop smiled. "Greedy." But he stopped teasing and spread her open, licked at her clit. Faith made a noise straight out of porn—quality stuff, not the shit shown on hotel pay-per-view—and hooked a leg over his shoulder.

She was holding back. Even as he slid a finger inside, even as she gasped and swore and dug her heel in between his shoulder blades, he could tell Faith was holding back. Her nails dug into the edges of the little table, and Coop could hear the cheap particle board creak.

Rising up on his knees, he trailed his mouth over her stomach, thumb and fingers still working her down below, setting a rhythm. She tasted like salt and whiskey under his tongue. A purplish bruise blossomed over her lower ribs—a gift from the Sayadinah?—and Coop paused over it, sucking the battered flesh in between his teeth. Just the right side of rough.

Faith went over the edge, and the nightstand shattered beneath her.


End file.
